


brand new key

by wambsgangs



Series: the extended 1970s succession universe [1]
Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:41:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29093655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wambsgangs/pseuds/wambsgangs
Summary: To take Tom's mind off the Brightstar scandal about to blow, and the Watergate scandal boiling over in the press, Shiv decides it's a good time to throw a little housewarming party.Guess who's coming to dinner.(a truly unhinged au whereSuccessiontakes place during the 1970s. carry on.)
Relationships: Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans
Series: the extended 1970s succession universe [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2147634
Comments: 22
Kudos: 33





	brand new key

**Author's Note:**

> title is inspired by one-hit wonder melanie's "brand new key" because i'm cheeky like that.
> 
> extremely cursed playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0NUcLXVZ0iuaY5oMD1ahf3), but if you saw any track listings that released after April 1974, no you didn't <3

“You know, um. I’ve been thinking.”

Tom rolled onto his side, rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

“Wouldn’t it be nice if we—well.” Shiv scrunched up her nose. “God, I’m gonna sound so fucking domestic, but. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a little housewarming party?” 

“Shiv,” Tom frowned. “We’ve been here for three months. Isn’t that a bit late for a housewarming? It’s—I mean, the house is warmed, so to speak.”

There were a lot of perks to being married to the only daughter of one of the world’s richest media moguls. Snagging tables at La Grenouille or The Four Seasons at a moment’s notice. Chartered cars out to the Hamptons. Private airliners that could whisk them off to the Riviera. Things that a little boy from St. Paul could only ever dream of while leafing through his mother’s dog-eared issues of _Vogue._

But this place. _This_ fucking place, this Park Avenue duplex with marble inlays and floor to ceiling windows and sprawling Central Park views, more than the vaunted position at ATN or the size of his savings account, was the clear sign that he’d made it. 

“I know,” she said. “But you’re always working, you know, and we just—we don’t see people like we used to. Before we got married.”

“Well,” he yawned. “Take it up with your dad, if you hate it so much.” 

“Look,” she said, and she tugged his head into her lap, threading her fingers through his hair. If it was anyone else, Tom might have mistaken it for intimacy, but Shiv _was_ a Roy, after all. A shrewd negotiator, a tough talker. She knew what she was doing. “It’s been hard. I know there’s that—that _thing_ that you can’t tell me about, and it’s really weighing on you. And I’m sorry about that, honey. I really am.” 

Tom bit his lip, looked up at her. God, she looked so fucking beautiful like this. Goddamn angelic. Even with her hair pinned up in a silk wrap and a slouchy pajama set, Shiv could have half the men in this city eating their hearts out. “Yeah. It’s been, uh. Pretty awful.”

To say the least. Ever since Bill had pulled him aside for what he’d _thought_ was just a friendly little passing of the torch, a clap on the back, maybe a _“You got this, kiddo,”_ but what had turned out to be a peer into a veritable bottomless death pit, Tom was basically biding his time until the Brightstar scandal broke. And the dam had held for the better part of a year—but, look. He’d scrambled his way out of Parks with Greg in tow and taken cover at the network. Once you were in the industry, it became all too clear that scandals this size couldn’t stay buried for long. Eventually the bodies floated to the surface. Look at what was happening to Dick Nixon.

“Maybe this could be good,” she said, dragging her nails along his scalp. He shivered at her touch. “Be a bit of a distraction, maybe get you to loosen up a little.” 

“Huh.” Tom raised an eyebrow. “And, ah. You think having a bunch of people over is the cure-all?”

“Might be good for _us,”_ Shiv emphasized.

He flushed at the hint. It felt pointed. Like he was _choosing_ impotence, actively deciding that he didn’t want to fuck his beautiful wife. (They really needed to stop watching the news to unwind before bed. It just soured his stomach and killed whatever libido he could muster.) “I’m just stressed, sweetie.” 

“I know.” Shiv pressed a light kiss to his forehead. “Think about it?”

“Sure,” he said, rolling onto his stomach and burying his face in his pillow. “Whatever you want, honey.” 

* * *

“Shiv?” Tom said in a falsely bright voice. “Can you give me a hand in the kitchen?” 

She tossed him an odd glance over her shoulder, then smiled apologetically at the couple she was chatting with—Nate, he thought was his name, who was one of the guys on the Eavis campaign, and his wife Jenny. “Sorry, um. Just a second,” she said, touching Nate’s arm as she trailed behind Tom into the kitchen. 

They both knew perfectly well that there was no kitchen emergency. Marina had left the place fully stocked before leaving for the weekend, canapés in the refrigerator and the liquor cabinet replenished. And it wasn’t like either of them were cooking. 

“Well, come on.” Shiv cocked her head. “Out with it.”

Tom drew a sharp breath. “Were you planning on telling me that we’re hosting a party for—for swingers?” he asked in a tight voice. “Or, ah, was I just supposed to find out on my own?”

“What?”

“Jesus Christ, Shiv.” Tom rubbed at the back of his neck. “Please, _please_ don’t play coy with me.” 

She blinked at him. A slow, feline smile spread across her face. “Oh, Tom.” Shiv reached up, pulling his face between her hands, stroked lightly at his cheek with her thumb. “Honey. Relax, it’s not a big deal.” 

“Not a big deal?” Tom asked in a raised whisper, anxiously glancing over her shoulder at the cluster of couples in the living room. He watched Jenny Sofrelli toying with George Miller’s tie, and Nate stretching out on the couch beside George’s wife, Deb. “Not a _big deal,_ Shiv?! There are _people_ dropping _keys_ into a fishbowl in our foyer as we speak.” 

“It’s fine,” she said, furrowing her eyebrows. She had this amused look on her face, like she couldn’t believe he was actually freaking out about being an unwitting host to a bunch of sexual deviants. _Hippies._ Might as well have dressed in a floral shirt with the buttons undone to his navel instead of a bespoke suit. “We’re all in on the joke, okay?” 

“And what’s the joke, exactly?” Tom forced a laugh. “That I’m a prude?” 

Shiv laughed. “No. But you know, you _could_ stand to loosen up a bit,” she said, arching an eyebrow. “You know? We’re all modern, aren’t we? We can do things a little differently. We don’t have to be these—I don’t know, prim and proper, cookie cutter, traditional married people.”

Tom bit the inside of his cheek. “Is that such an awful thing?” 

“It’s 1974,” Shiv said, like that was supposed to mean something to him. “I don’t wanna be like Ward and June Cleaver, you know?” 

If there weren’t three other couples in their living room at that very moment, he might have started to cry. 

It was just—married life wasn’t easy, or perfect. He knew that going into this with Shiv, even if his parents made it _look_ effortless, forty years on. But Tom had expected, probably a little naively, that he might be enough for his wife. That by accepting his hand, she was buying into the whole _mating for life_ thing. The “His & Hers” bath towel sets, two toothbrushes in a shared holder on the bathroom countertop, two (or three?) kids and a dog thing. But then she’d sat astride his hips in their swanky Villa d'Este honeymoon suite and told him, _You know, on second thought, Gloria Steinem might have had a point? Maybe there’s more to life than the box set death march._ And Tom had just kind of taken it on the chin without putting up a fight, because what was there really to say when his new wife’s perfect tits were in his face? 

And now it was five months on, and they hadn’t really discussed it at all. Mostly because it embarrassed him, because he wasn’t a fucking hippie. _Free love_ and all of that nonsense sounded nice in principle, but in practice? Disaster. 

“They were happy, though,” Tom said, and maybe his voice came out a little choked. “Right?”

“I don’t know, I never watched,” Shiv shrugged. “Anyway. Just don’t get all _Tom_ about it, all right?” She tapped at his temple, grinning. “Have a drink, _relax._ Nobody’s gonna chain you to a bed and force you to do anything you don’t want to do. Go with the flow, yeah?” 

He nodded, still working his jaw. She pressed a light kiss to his mouth and patted him on the cheek, then swung out of the kitchen while he leaned up against the sink and watched her go. 

Tom collected himself, splashed a handful of cool tap water on his face and looked out the window just over the sink at the city skyline sparkling in the distance. That always managed to calm him down. He felt a bit more centered when the world beyond his windowsill sprawled out in all directions and shrunk him down to a tiny dot on the horizon. So, his wife wanted to sleep with other people. What did it matter, when there were people fifty-odd blocks below him squatting in derelict housing and shooting up heroin? Or dying bloody deaths in a distant rice paddy field? He could choke down a few bites of mushroom vol-au-vents and make polite conversation with friends in his goddamn palatial apartment. 

Nate waved him over when he emerged from the kitchen, feeling considerably less shaky. “Tom,” he called, patting the couch cushion beside him. “I was telling Shiv, but um, this place. It’s really terrific.” 

“Thanks,” Tom smiled. “You wouldn’t believe the state of it, though. When we first moved in? Had to peel this god-awful forest green felt off the walls in the library. I don’t know what the decorator was thinking.” 

“Oh, Christ.” Nate shook his head. “Say, how’s everything at the old propaganda farm?”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “ATN? Oh, fine. Fine.” 

“You ever wonder what’d happen if Nixon _actually_ got impeached?” Nate said, leaning in. “Because, God. That father-in-law of yours, he’s really thrown all his chips behind the guy. You’re essentially the official mouthpiece of the Republican Party right now.” 

“Oh, I don’t really get into the, ah, politics of it all,” Tom said. “You’d have to ask Shiv about that, I’d imagine.” 

“She says she’s agnostic about it,” Nate laughed. “But who really knows what she’s actually thinking, right?” 

Tom paused. It felt like a loaded question. “Right.” 

Look. He was a lot of things, but Tom wasn’t an idiot. And he also wasn’t blind. Anyone with eyes could see that Nate had a certain classic charm, with those warm, brown eyes, and that wry smile that made you feel like you were sharing a private joke. Hell, if Tom was liquored up enough, _he_ might sleep with him. But he noticed the fleeting glances, the soft touches that passed between this guy and his wife. _His_ wife. 

But it was increasingly difficult to feel proprietary over her with Jenny hanging on his arm, batting her long lashes up at him; the Millers splitting off and chatting up the Cochrans on opposite ends of the living room. Hard to ignore the thick haze of pheromones in the air, electricity zinging in all directions. 

When the fuck did his life turn into the plot of a _Penthouse_ letter? _I didn’t think it could happen to me, but when my wife arranged for a group sex party in our apartment…._

Tom sipped at his scotch to tamp down the spike of anxiety. It didn’t help.

* * *

Someone had the bright idea of cracking open a dusty bottle of La Fée Parisienne, and Shiv was laughingly digging the brouilleur and Pontarlier glasses that had been a cheeky wedding present from Roman out of the liquor cabinet when a round of insistent knocking echoed through the foyer. The room went quiet for a moment.

“Were we expecting someone?” Tom asked, glancing at Shiv. 

She just smiled. “Why don’t you go answer the door, hon?”

Tom nodded, and gently extricated himself from Jenny’s light hold on his bicep before padding into the foyer. It was better out here, away from the pulsing lustful energy in the living room. He ran a hand over his flushed face and sighed before pulling the door open.

Cousin Greg was standing in the hall in a pair of red plaid bellbottoms with his hands jammed into his pockets. (Tom made a mental note to rag on him for that later, when the shock of the moment had faded and the distant ringing in his ears had subsided.) He grinned, oblivious to the plain horror on Tom’s face. 

“Hey, man!” he said brightly, peering into the foyer from where he stood in the hall between the door and the elevator. “Oh, damn. Nice, uh, nice abode! You really live here?”

“What the _fuck_ are you doing here?” Tom hissed in an undertone, stepping over the threshold. Greg looked bewildered. “Get the fuck out!” 

Greg held up a placating hand. “Dude.” 

“I’m serious, Greg. Get the fuck out. This isn’t a good time.” 

“Okay, but, like. Shiv asked me to come over?” Greg said, running a self-conscious hand through his shag. Christ, he could be the seventh member of the fucking Partridge Family in this little getup. “She, like, called and everything.” 

“Yeah, uh-huh. _Sure,_ Greg.”

“I brought, the, um—the stuff?” Greg said. He raised his eyebrows in a meaningful way. “You know?”

“The _stuff?”_ Tom repeated, incredulous. “Whatever, I don’t care. Just hand it over and get lost, yeah?”

Greg bit his lip. “Um…”

“What?” Tom demanded, and watched Greg rummage through his coat pockets and surface with a clear plastic bag of… something. He stared at the nugget in Greg’s outstretched palm, and then at Greg. “Jesus Christ. _Reefer,_ Greg? What the fuck.”

Greg fought back a smile. “It’s for, uh, my glaucoma.”

“Your glaucoma?” Tom scoffed. “Fuck off. You don’t have fucking glaucoma, Greg.”

“Can I just come in and—”

“Absolutely not.” 

Then Shiv’s voice floated clear across the foyer. “Honey, is that Greg?” Shiv called to him from the living room, over their guests’ indistinct chatter. “Let him in.”

He looked at Greg, who smirked and lifted a shoulder as if to say, _See?_

“Please,” Tom said, grabbing his wrist. He heard his voice go all reedy with desperation. “Greg, _please._ I’m begging you not to come in.” 

Greg gave him a funny look. He easily stepped past Tom into the foyer. “Dude, chill. I’m just, like, doing Shiv a favor? It’s not a big deal.” 

Right. _Not a big deal._

“Holy shit, dude,” Greg breathed, tipping his head back to follow the spiral staircase’s winding path to the second floor. “I can’t believe you, like, _live_ here. It’s really opulent?”

Tom folded his arms across his chest, unamused. Ordinarily he’d find some humor in Greg’s tendency to gawk at things that should have felt commonplace to him, after all this time spent traveling in exclusive circles. But not tonight. “Hurry it up, please.”

“What’s, um. What’s up with the fishbowl?” Greg asked, nodding to the collection of keys in the glass bowl set on the entryway table. 

His cheeks burned. “How about you mind your fucking business, Greg?” 

Greg looked perplexed, his feathered brows knitted together. But then the sound of laughter echoed from the living room, and his mouth primmed up into a tiny ‘O.’ 

Tom glared. 

“I’ll be quick,” Greg promised. He was blushing now, too. “And then, um. I’ll go.”

“Damn right, you will.” 

Everyone looked up in unison when Greg walked into the living room. Hard not to notice him, Tom supposed, when the kid was close to seven feet tall and his miles of legs were on display in a loud pair of high-waisted bellbottoms. Tom didn’t miss Jenny sweeping her eyes over his lanky frame. 

“Who’s _this_ tall drink of water?” she purred, and Greg smiled so that the dimples in his cheeks stood out. Tom fought the urge to elbow him between the ribs, biting back a scowl.

Shiv laughed. “Uh, this is Greg. My cousin, and Tom’s secretary.” 

“Oh, a _male_ secretary,” Jenny said, raising an eyebrow. “How modern.”

Greg lifted a giant hand and waved to the group. “Uh, hey. I was just—um, did you want me to—?” He drew up beside Shiv, where she sat with her legs curled up under her on the sectional, and dropped the bag unceremoniously into her lap. She looked up at him with a grin. 

“Yeah, Greg here was kind enough to bring us a little something… off-menu,” Shiv told the room. Then, to Greg: “Stay, won’t you?” 

“Oh.” Greg looked uncomfortable. As if he was asking for permission, he shot a sidelong glance at Tom. “Um, I don’t wanna, like. Impose?” 

“You’re not imposing,” Shiv said, and met Tom’s eyes from across the room. “Isn’t that right, Tom?”

Tom flinched under the pressure, the weight of six pairs of eyes on him. He forced a genial smile. “Ah, no. Of course not.” He jerked his head towards the kitchen, motioning to Greg. “Come on, buddy. Let me get you a drink.”

Greg mumbled out a quiet _thanks_ and followed Tom into the kitchen. 

“What’s your poison?” Tom asked him, in a voice loud enough to carry into the living room. Greg scratched at his neck.

“Um, I don’t drink much? Actually?”

Tom snatched an open bottle of 1960 Château Pichon off the counter and poured liberally into a glass, shoving it into Greg’s hands. “You’re gonna drink up,” he said in a dark undertone. “And whatever you see tonight, or _think_ you see? You’re gonna keep your fucking mouth shut about it. Got it, pal?”

Greg stared at him, wide-eyed, and nodded. “Uh, yeah. Affirmative.”

“Good,” Tom said, patting him on the shoulder. “Now, come on. Don’t be a wallflower!” he chirped, and all but dragged Greg back into the living room by the elbow.

Nate looked up at Greg with interest when they reentered. “Shiv’s cousin, huh? You were at the wedding, then. Thought you looked familiar.”

“Uh, yup.” Greg idly swirled the Bordeaux in his glass, settling down on the loveseat beside Tom. He sat so close that his thigh pressed up against Tom’s, which was distracting enough without Shiv watching them through hooded eyes. “Technically, she’s my mom’s cousin? But, yeah.”

“Hm.” Nate smiled, and sipped at his absinthe. “So, you’re Shiv’s cousin, and Tom’s secretary. A real family affair.” 

Greg swallowed. “I—I guess.”

“He’s a credit to the company, though,” Tom said, not sure that he liked Nate’s implication. He set a hand on Greg’s knee, patted it softly. “I mean, he’s an invaluable asset at ATN. Very, ah, very dedicated to the job. Setting the benevolent nepotism aside, aha.”

“Thanks,” Greg said with a note of surprise, tilting his head to look at Tom. He shrugged.

“Enough shop talk,” Shiv interrupted. “Greg, c’mere. Can you show me how to do this?” She dangled the contraband between her fingers and Greg laughed as he took it from her, kneeling in front of the coffee table at the center of the room to lay out his supplies.

Tom let out an involuntary groan. “Really?”

“Oh, come on, Tom. Don’t be such a square,” Shiv said, rolling her eyes. Tom felt his cheeks redden.

“I take it you’re not much of a toker, Wambsgans?” Nate grinned.

Frowning, he opened his mouth to respond, but Shiv snorted. “Tom? God, no.” She leaned forward, stacking her elbows on her knees, as if to tell Nate something in confidence. But they had an audience, didn’t they? “I took him to Paradiso, when we were detouring through Amsterdam on our honeymoon? And I swear to God, he broke out in hives after one hit.”

“I think it was laced with something,” Tom muttered, blushing anew amid the swell of laughter. Greg met his eyes when he looked up from his work of grinding the bud down into a fine crumble.

“Like, this stuff is pure,” he told Tom. “So, no worries.” 

Tom forced a tight smile. “Great.” 

He knew he was being petulant, openly pouting in front of their guests while his wife regaled them with stories about her straightlaced husband, but if there was any consolation, it was that Greg looked just about as uncomfortable as he felt. 

The whole thing was just beyond mortifying. He could imagine what Greg was thinking about all of this. What kinds of thoughts were pinballing around in that giant skull of his? Part of him wanted to denounce it all, but what good would that do? He was already a joyless old fuddy-duddy in everyone’s eyes, as it was. But for some reason it bothered him even more to consider the idea that Greg might think he actually _was_ some kind of eccentric. A closet freak. A—he shuddered to even think it—a _free spirit._

Tom sat there on the loveseat, silently tormented, and watched Greg roll a joint with deft fingers. It was an oddly soothing distraction, an excuse to tune out the flow of conversation. There were few times that he had much opportunity to just study his young protégé, and though this was far from the kind of task that he wanted to see Greg apply himself to with rigor, it absorbed him all the same. He looked almost pensive. _Did_ Greg actually have deep thoughts? Was he even capable of high-level cognition? Sometimes Tom thought he might be, but then that placid face would split in half with a dopey grin and he’d think, eh, maybe not. But he was pleasant to study, anyway. Kind of like gazing at a passing cloud, or an inkblot. Plenty of room for interpretation.

Greg drew a Bic lighter out of his pocket and flicked it, holding the flame to the tapered end of the joint before taking a long drag. He exhaled slowly, eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment. With a quirked brow, he extended the joint to Tom. 

“Yeah, no thanks,” Tom said tightly. “I’m swell.” 

“Suit yourself,” Greg shrugged, passing it off to Shiv. She smirked at Tom and took a hit. 

And so it went, with Greg offering his services as the resident stoner, showing a roomful of banking executives and politicians and their wives how to get toked up. It was a perfectly ludicrous scene, and pretty soon the living room was hazy with smoke and a pungent stench that turned Tom’s stomach. 

“It’s skunk,” Greg explained, when he caught Tom pulling a face. As if he were supposed to know what that meant. “From California. But it’s, like, one of the better strains?”

Tom sniffed. “Well, that’s a real consolation. I’ll bear that in mind when I’m smelling it in the drapes for the next week,” he said, and pushed up from the loveseat, ignoring the way Shiv’s eyes followed him. “Excuse me. I need some air.” 

He stepped out onto the terrace just off the living room, and slid the glass door shut with a tight snap behind him. It didn’t completely drown out the sound of conversation, or the rising pitch of raucous laughter that told him that they were probably picking keys out of the bowl, but it dulled the noise somewhat. _Whatever._ Just because he was passively letting it happen under his roof didn’t mean that he had to watch. 

Tom hugged his ribcage, shivering against the brisk night air as he stepped closer to the cast-iron railing enclosing the space. Really should have planned out this defiant stand a bit better, shouldn’t he? Maybe brought a jacket, or a fifth of whiskey. 

The door slid open behind him. Tom tensed.

“You okay, dude?” 

He bit his lip. “I just needed air,” he told Greg. “What, did Shiv send you out here?”

“No,” Greg said, drawing up beside him. He set his elbows on the railing. “I was just checking.” 

“Ah.”

They stood in silence for a moment. Or maybe longer, Tom couldn’t say for sure. He fixed his eyes on the towering buildings in the distance. He felt his vision blurring at the edges, a sharp pain stinging in his sinuses. The skyline took on the appearance of a watercolor painting, dappled and soft.

“Um,” Greg said. “Can I—can I ask you something?”

“No. But you _can_ shut the fuck up,” Tom said, rubbing absently at the corner of his eye. 

Greg sighed. “Yeah, okay.” 

They both turned sharply at the sound of the glass door sliding open again. Jenny Sofrelli paused on the step leading outside and shot Tom a dazzling smile. 

“Hey there, handsome,” she simpered, and floated down the stairs, the gentle folds in her green wrap dress swaying as she approached. She cast a sidelong glance at Greg, who took the hint and retreated to the end of the terrace that overlooked the West skyline. 

“So, listen. I think Nate and Shiv are taking off, probably heading back to our place, so…” Jenny trailed a hand down the length of his arm, insinuating her slender fingers under his cuffed sleeve. Tom suppressed a shiver. “What do you think? Shall we make ourselves a little more comfortable upstairs?”

Tom looked down at Jenny, biting his lip. Objectively, it could be worse, right? A pretty, young thing with waist-length raven hair and soft eyes asking him if he wanted to sleep with her. Just consequence-free sex, plain and simple as that. 

“Oh, ah.” Tom gave a weak chuckle, tossed a glance over his shoulder at Greg, who was doing an absolutely terrible job of pretending not to listen from his perch on a wicker garden chair twenty feet away, his head cocked in their direction. “I’m, ah, I’m flattered? Truly.”

Jenny smiled, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

“But I feel a little under the weather,” he winced. “And, ah, I wouldn’t want it to be something catching. You know?”

Her face tightened. She looked distinctly put out, but she nodded anyway. “I see. Well, feel better, then.” Jenny touched a hand to his arm before stalking back into the apartment and shutting the door behind her a bit louder than was strictly necessary, in Tom’s opinion. 

Tom buried his face in his hands. Greg was mercifully quiet, a silent party to his humiliation, and the cacophony of distant traffic on the streets below, the blaring car horns and squealing tires, was distraction enough from his mounting dread at the idea of stepping back inside to face the music. 

But the chill in the air won out, and Tom slouched back into the apartment with Greg close at his heels. 

Shiv snagged him as soon as he stepped into the empty living room. 

“Talk for a sec?” 

Wearily, Tom nodded. He caught a glimpse of Nate and Jenny hovering in the foyer before Shiv dragged him into the kitchen to talk privately without so much as a glance at Greg, who flopped down on the vacant sectional as they left. 

“Jenny said you were feeling sick,” Shiv said, leaning up against the counter. She wore a look of vague concern, lips pressed together tightly. “Everything okay?”

“Sure. Bit of a headache, but I’m fine.” 

“You know,” Shiv said, and she eyed him like she didn’t quite believe him. “If you didn’t want to do this, you could have just said so.” 

He sighed. “Shiv.” 

“I wouldn’t have minded.” 

Tom frowned at her. It felt like a test, in a way. Admitting weakness to Shiv was dangerous, a risky gamble with his feelings that rarely yielded a high return on investment. “I thought you didn’t want to be like the Cleavers,” he said carefully. “That you wanted to be _modern.”_

“I do,” she said. “But, Tom. If you don’t—”

“I’m tired,” Tom said, cutting her off. “It’s, ah, it’s been a long day, and—and I think you should go.”

A thin line appeared between Shiv’s eyebrows. “Go—with them?”

“You should go.” Tom rubbed a hand over his eyes. Seemed to him that there was no solution here that didn’t end with him crying in the shower, so he chose Shiv’s happiness over his own. It was, after all, the only choice he knew how to make. “I’ll be fine. Really.”

She studied him, and for a fleeting moment, Tom thought she might change her mind. But then Shiv reached up and kissed him softly on the cheek. 

“Don’t wait up,” she smiled. “We’ll talk in the morning?”

He swallowed, forcing a weak smile in return. “Sure.”

Greg sat up sharply when they trailed back through the living room, looked between his boss and his cousin. 

“Night, Greg,” Shiv said, lifting a lazy hand to wave as she passed the couch. 

“Oh, uh. Night, Shiv.” He shot Tom a worried look.

In the foyer, Nate stuck a hand out to shake, and Tom took it, tugging a bit harder than was probably polite, or necessary. 

“Well, thanks for having us,” Nate said, and his grin seemed triumphant. Like they’d been locking horns all night and he’d just come out on top. Tom supposed he had. “Like I said, it’s just a terrific place. Really fantastic.” 

Tom pressed his lips together in a tight line, avoiding Shiv’s stare, Jenny’s scowl. “Appreciate it.” 

Greg made to rise off the couch when Tom returned. “Hey, man. If you want me to take off, I’ll just—”

“Please don’t go,” Tom said, plaintive. He couldn’t bear the idea of sitting alone in an empty apartment while his wife fucked another couple. The silence was too stifling. “Please.” 

Greg blinked, nodded. “Oh. Yeah, no problem.”

“It’s too quiet in here,” Tom said. He turned his back on Greg, and padded to the corner of the living room where their Linn Sondek sat on an oak plinth. “Don’t you think?” 

They didn’t use the turntable much—or, at least, Shiv didn’t. Until tonight, they hadn’t entertained, and it was just one of those pieces that sat in the corner of the living room collecting metaphorical dust, unless Shiv was out very late and Tom found himself alone, nursing a stiff drink and listening to an album. _Bridge over Troubled Water. Desperado;_ God, that record always hit him square in the chest. But lately he’d been dipping into bluer territory, some of the more… countercultural stuff. He might not be a hippie but, look, he could appreciate the craft, right? 

He set the needle gently on the spinning record, but he recoiled sharply at the wailing guitar lick that bloomed out of the speakers. _I’ve been really tryin’, baby. Tryin’ to hold back this feeling for so long._

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Tom groaned, moving to lift the tonearm off the record. Karmic punishment, or something. He didn’t need Marvin Gaye taunting him with a good time all fucking night. 

“No, leave it on,” Greg said suddenly, and Tom glanced at him over his shoulder. He shrugged. “Like, it’s a good album.”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “So,” he said, settling down next to Greg on the short end of the sectional. “Cousin Greg. A stoner _and_ a ladies’ man. I’m learning a lot about you tonight, pal.” 

“Ha, right.” Greg reached for his stash, pausing to throw Tom a guilty look. “Oh, um. I can take this outside.”

“You really think that’s my biggest concern right now, Greg?”

“Fair enough.” 

He had to hand it to Greg. The kid knew how to keep his mouth shut, even though Tom could see how badly he was dying to ask about the scene he’d stumbled upon. And he was grateful for it. He was. It was just that Tom was bursting at the seams, and if he didn’t talk about it to someone, he’d explode.

Greg rolled another joint, humming off-key to the music as he worked.

“I’ve got a question for you,” Tom said, watching Greg seal off the edge with the tip of his tongue. His eyes flickered up to Tom. “Do you think I’m too uptight?”

“Do I…?”

“Am I—you know.” Tom tried to work the tension out of his neck. He _felt_ tight, anxious. “A square. A stick-in-the-mud.” 

“I mean, you’re… particular? Kind of obsessive?” 

Tom sighed. “No, I mean. Is it such a terrible thing to want the same things that your parents wanted?” 

Greg frowned. “I don’t, um. I don’t follow.”

“I just think,” Tom said, in a voice that sounded stronger than he felt, “I think there’s something to be said for monogamy, you know? And if that makes me old-fashioned, then. I don’t know.”

It was quiet, but for Marvin Gaye pleading with his lover to stay the night. _Scared that if I closed my eyes, when I got ready to wake up, I might find you gone._

“Oh,” Greg said thoughtfully. He twisted off the joint end and set it down on the coffee table. “No. I think it’s nice, you know? That you want that.” 

Tom folded his arms over his chest. He kind of felt like sulking, even with that external validation. “I guess.” 

“So, like.” Greg inched closer to him on the couch, folding up his coltish legs. He pursed his lips. “Just, um, out of curiosity? Why do you and Shiv…?”

“Christ,” Tom muttered. He was too sober for this conversation. Frowning, he plucked the joint off the table, pinching it between his fingers. Greg lifted an eyebrow. 

“Well, come on,” Tom said. “You want the goods, you gotta light me up.”

Greg grinned. 

* * *

“You know who’s a real piece of shit?” Tom said, unprompted. He forced himself up onto his elbows so he could peer down from the couch at Greg, who was splayed out on the parquet floor. “Nate.” 

“Dude,” Greg laughed as he sat up. 

“Not just because he’s sleeping with my wife.” Tom gestured vaguely for the joint, which Greg passed without complaint. He took a leisurely drag. “Because he’s a fucking commie bastard. Should just fuck off to Sweden and start a commune.”

“I think he’s just, like, a Democrat. So that seems kinda extreme.” 

“Fuck off, Greg. You can join him.” 

The pot didn’t reek anymore, or else he’d just gotten used to the stench. He’d probably have to burn his suit, this fantastic Tommy Nutter three-piece that he’d picked up the last time he and Shiv had been in London, paying an uncomfortable visit to her mother. No fucking way was he sending _that_ to the cleaner’s. 

It was _good,_ though, the pot. Better than whatever Shiv had scored in Amsterdam. He was fucking melting into the couch cushions, soft and warm as fondue. Was this what it was like to live fearlessly? Without the constant thrum of anxiety pattering at his ribs or spiking his bloodstream? 

In any case, it explained a lot about Greg. 

“He _is_ kind of a dick, though,” Greg mused. “Like. When you went out on the balcony? He asked me if the head pricks at ATN know that they have a pothead on their payroll.” 

“What?” Tom laughed.

“And I was like, ‘Um, I don’t think that they care about the, like, ideological leanings of the support staff?’” Greg wrinkled his nose. “And then _he_ was all,” and Greg cleared his throat, adopting an exaggerated patrician tone that clashed terribly with his whole David Cassidy vibe. “He was all like, ‘Oh, I didn’t know that people with _integrity_ worked for ATN. I thought you guys were, like, shilling for the free market and the war.’” 

Tom snorted. “For fuck’s sake, Greg. I hope you told him to fuck off.”

“No?” Greg said with an incredulous smile. “I mean, would _you_ have?”

“Told Nate to fuck off?” Tom frowned. “For giving you shit? Sure, I would have. The fucking prick. You know, you really need to learn to stand up for yourself, Gregory. Use some of that moral backbone for a change, huh?”

He rose from the couch before he had time to decipher the look on Greg’s face. The record had stopped playing at some point, so Tom went over to the turntable and flipped the vinyl to the B-side. He paused, skipped a track or two, not really needing a reminder of his own distant lover.

Greg looked up at him with a lazy grin when he settled back down on the couch. It was weird, how he could almost _feel_ the pulse of the music in his body, how it turned him loose. “You trying to seduce me, Tom?” 

“Am I trying to—?” A breathy moan drifted out of the speakers, cutting him off, and Tom burst out laughing. Absolutely no fucking subtlety. _Goddamn it, Marvin._ “Oh, come on. You think I’m putting the moves on you, Greg? _Tonight?”_

“I don’t know,” Greg said, smiling. “Maybe you are.”

“And what if I was?” 

Greg sat up ramrod straight, pressing his spine against the coffee table behind him. “But you just said you weren’t.”

“Humor me,” Tom shrugged. “Tell me, Greg. How do you imagine I’d _seduce_ you?”

It was a laugh, the idea of _Tom_ seducing _Greg._ Perfectly ridiculous. Downright deranged. If anything, Greg was the seductress here. A total bimbo, with his wispy hair and those huge, soft eyes. He could give Twiggy a run for her fucking money, if he wanted to. 

But, if he was. Tom imagined that it might go a little like this.

“Oh,” Greg said, clearly stalling for time. He pulled at a loose thread in his inseam. “I mean, I don’t know, dude. I don’t know your, um. Seduction methods.”

“And pray tell, how does Cousin Greg seduce the ladies?” Tom teased. “By flashing a bit of ankle?”

Without really meaning to, Tom found himself tracing Greg’s legs with his eyes, from the bony knees drawn up under his chin all the way down to his flat feet spread wide on the floor. Sure enough, he could make out a pale sliver of ankle jutting out below the hem of his bellbottoms.

He swallowed. 

Greg shifted forward, tucking his legs underneath him. His eyes were level with Tom’s chin.

“Would you kiss me?” Tom asked on a sudden impulse. He told himself that it was just to see if he could get a rise out of Greg. “If I asked you to?” 

Greg was staring at Tom’s mouth. His tongue darted out to wet his lips.

“If I _told_ you to?” 

The tension snapped. Greg surged up onto his knees and kissed Tom full on the mouth. It was funny for half a second— _Good one, Greg, you called my bluff—_ but Greg swallowed his laughter whole, and Tom couldn’t think of anything else at all.

Tom pulled Greg into his lap, slid a teasing hand down the length of his spine in a way that had Greg rolling his slender hips into him. It was kind of wild to think that he could have this effect on someone, have them shuddering at his touch. Marvin spurred him on, coaxed him along. _Oh, come on in and let me love you. Oh, baby, climb the wall._

“Tom,” Greg gasped against his mouth, at the feel of Tom’s hands settling on his hips. His fingers slipped under the waistband and pressed into the soft flesh there, raised goosebumps on contact. “Should we—?”

“No, shut up,” Tom breathed, without really knowing what Greg was asking, and he kissed him quiet. Didn’t want to ruin the moment. He wasn’t entirely convinced that the indica hadn’t knocked him out and that this wasn’t all just some hyperrealistic dream. Better not to question it.

The record stopped spinning. The room plunged into silence. Tom lifted his head, looked up at Greg. 

“Bedroom?” he asked. Greg bit his lip.

“Isn’t that, um.” Greg broke off with a soft sigh. “Kind of, like, cheating?” 

Tom mouthed at his neck, just to draw another moan out of him. “Your point?” 

“It’s just a little hypocritical, don’t you think?” Greg pushed lightly on Tom’s chest to put some space between them. He stared down at Tom with heavy, solemn eyes. “You’re all upset about Shiv, but you want me?”

Tom blinked. Put it like that, and he might start to think he was an awful person. Which he was, objectively. The things they said about Nixon, it could all so neatly apply to him, too. A crook. A liar. The second that the Brightstar scandal blew up, he'd be a fucking pariah in this city. Nobody would give him a second glance.

What was one more transgression tacked onto his rap sheet?

“Hey,” he said, tilting Greg’s face toward him. “I’m not worried, okay? We have an arrangement, Shiv and I, remember?”

“But—”

“Greg. Shut up for one second. Do you want this?” Tom asked. “Because, fuck. I _want_ this.” 

Greg’s eyes darkened. Often, Tom found that infuriating, that veil of inscrutability that would shade whatever Greg was actually thinking from view. But in this context, it was kind of thrilling. 

He dipped his head to kiss Tom, and before long he was panting into the column of Tom’s neck. His long fingers trailed to the button on Tom’s waistband. 

“Upstairs,” Tom gasped, and they practically tripped over themselves to scale the winding spiral staircase to the second floor, in search of the first bed that they could find.

Maybe he could be a free spirit, just for tonight.

* * *

Tom woke in the guest bedroom with a dry mouth and a long, pale leg slung over his hip. 

“Greg.” 

He reached back and shook his shoulder lightly. Greg twitched in his sleep and buried his face deeper into Tom’s neck with a contented sigh. 

“Buddy,” Tom yawned, rolling out from under him. He pushed himself up against the headboard and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. “Time to get up. Shiv’ll be home soon.” 

“Uuuuh.” Greg opened an eye. “What time is it?”

The light streaming through the gauzy drapes was soft, feeble. “Five-thirty? Maybe six.” 

Greg whined. “Dude. I’m, like, way too tired to move.”

At that, Tom grinned. He settled next to Greg, poking his cheek. “Oh, yeah? I wore you out last night, huh, Greg?”

“Shut up,” Greg mumbled, blushing. 

Tom noticed with satisfaction that Greg was so pale that the flush spread all the way down his neck and fanned out over his collarbone. He could work with that.

“Well, listen,” he said, and pressed a kiss to Greg’s freckled shoulder. “It’s still a little early. And, ah, if you’re really too tired to move…” He nudged Greg onto his back and kissed a trail down his sternum, pausing at his navel to shoot him a wicked grin. His eyes fluttered open when Tom took him in hand and stroked lazily up his length. 

“I guess I’ll have to do all the work, as usual,” Tom said, taking Greg into his mouth. 

Well. _That_ seemed to wake him up.

It shouldn’t have surprised him that Greg needed a little extra incentive to get a move on, but it worked, in any case, and a little while later Tom was able to hustle him out of bed and down the stairs. He felt almost manic, felt a slightly hysterical laugh bubbling out of his chest as he kissed Greg eagerly on the lips and shoved him out the door. God, the thrill of getting away with a secret rendezvous with his secretary was just too intoxicating. Like he was James Bond and Greg was—well, he was Miss Moneypenny, but if she was socially awkward and spoke in a stammer instead of a sexy British accent, and said _dude_ a lot.

Tom puttered around in the kitchen while he waited for Shiv to come home. He put on a pot of coffee and idly wiped down the countertops, cleared them of empty wine bottles and crumb-laden serving plates. He still wasn’t sure what he might say to Shiv when she got in, whether they’d pick up where they left off with their discussion last night or just pretend that it had never happened. He didn’t know if he could be credibly upset with a shit-eating grin plastered on his face. 

Shiv poked her head into the kitchen, startling him while he poured hot coffee into a mug. “Hi, honey.” 

“Shiv!” He grinned, swept her up in his arms and kissed her neck. Yeah, he could be the quintessential good husband. He could do this. “God, I missed you.” 

“Tom? It’s been, like, nine hours,” Shiv said, amused. She smacked a kiss to his cheek and reached around him for the mug on the counter. “You’re awfully chipper for…” Shiv glanced at her wristwatch. “A quarter past seven.” 

“Can’t I just be happy to see my beautiful wife?” 

“You can,” Shiv said. She wore an odd smile. “It’s just that I wasn’t expecting such a warm reception, you know. After last night.” 

Tom deflated a little. “I was tired, Shiv.” 

“I know.” She looked at him for a long moment, then tugged gently at his sleeve. “Sit with me for a minute?” 

_Oh, fuck._ Tom bit back a grimace. Shiv asking to talk was like finding a memo from Logan Roy on his desk. It was almost never accompanied by good news. 

They settled at the kitchen dinette. 

“Can I say something?” Tom said, before Shiv could speak and he lost his nerve. “I don’t—look, it wasn’t cool, what you did last night. A little warning might have been nice, you know?”

Shiv blinked. “Uh, no. No, you’re right.” 

“Because if this is gonna work, Shiv, you have to talk to me.” 

“I know.” She looked a little dazed. Possibly his first attempt at open, honest communication with her had short-circuited her brain. “I know, honey.” 

“It’s just—I just wish you’d said something earlier.” 

She cocked her head. “I did, though. I said that it could be good for _us.”_

“Right,” Tom said. “But, ah, I thought it was more along the lines of, ‘Let’s have a dinner party,’ not, you know. An orgy.” 

She laughed. “An orgy? Oh, sweetie.” 

“But look, if that’s what you want?” Tom shrugged, trying for nonchalance. “I guess, ah. I guess I’d just appreciate a heads up before you start bringing guys home.” 

Shiv nodded. “So, uh. What changed?”

“Hm?”

“You were pretty upset last night, Wambsgans.” She raised an eyebrow. “I’m just curious, is all.” 

Tom didn’t know how to answer without revealing too much. “What, you don’t want me on board with this?”

“Of course, I do.” Shiv reached for his hand across the table and squeezed. “It’s good. I like seeing you a little out of your comfort zone.” 

“Well, ah. Okay, then.” 

Shiv sipped her coffee, and a comfortable silence fell. Could have gone worse, Tom mused to himself as he pushed up from his chair and went to clear the sink. 

“Oh, by the way,” Shiv said, when his back was turned and the faucet was running. “I ran into Greg on my way up.” 

Tom shut off the tap. He turned to her abruptly. _“What?”_

When he looked at her, Shiv was grinning. “And here I thought I’d married a square,” she said. Maybe he was imagining it, but did she look almost—proud? “Guessing you had a good night yourself.” 

Tom’s face flooded with heat. “Shiv. You’re not _actually_ suggesting that—”

“Come on,” Shiv said. Her smile was knowing. “Tom. If you slept with Greg last night, that’s fine. Great, even. I mean, I’ve always thought that there was a certain _je ne sais quoi_ with you guys. Why shouldn’t you be allowed to figure that out?”

He swallowed. “You’re not… upset?”

“Tom,” she said, in that tone of voice that she often used to let him know he was being stupid. “This whole arrangement only works if it works for _both_ of us. You know that, right?” 

She got up and crossed to where he stood paralyzed at the sink, draping her arms around his waist from behind. They stood like that for a while, her cheek pressed into his back and his hands tight around her wrists, while his mind raced. 

“So, if I told you I was thinking of having Greg and the Sofrellis over again in a couple of weeks,” Shiv said, pulling his focus back from the world beyond the kitchen window. “What do you think?”

Tom relaxed in her arms. Maybe this could work. 

“Whatever you want, honey.”

**Author's Note:**

> the extended 1970s succession universe would not exist without beck and niharika fleshing out the details. (let's just say that this au is too powerful and expansive for one person to dream up alone). and huuuuge thanks to beck for taking a look at my extremely rough draft. this is a team effort. we're all in the pit together, friends.


End file.
